


beside the victory

by halfcharacter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Cannibalism, Falling In Love, Falling Out of Love, M/M, Mentions of Capital Punishment, Multi, Ships Passing In the Night, Smoking, Witnessing Other People’s Messy Breakups, a lot of what-if’s, an ode to sol tozer’s stays and ned little’s eyelashes, and wishing things had turned out differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfcharacter/pseuds/halfcharacter
Summary: Le Vesconte pushes him through the tent flap.“For what it’s worth,” he says, low enough so that only Sol can hear him, as they round the corner to see Hickey, arms bound and smirking like he was off to the races, “I don’t blame you.”A man, Sol thinks, as he steps up to the gallows, Hickey beside him and Le Vesconte behind him.All officers are men.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Solomon Tozer, Edward Little/Solomon Tozer, James Fitzjames/Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	beside the victory

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as an exercise in trying to write a rarepair, and ended up being somewhat a study in both ships passing in the night and witnessing breakups on the periphery. Go figure.

Tozer first sees him in Greenhithe, shouldering up the gangplank with his sea chest in his hands.

 _He’s broad_ , is the first thing Tozer thinks about Edward Little. The second thing is: _He’s an officer_.

* * *

One of the Marines dies that Winter on Beechey. One of Bryant’s, so Sol doesn’t know him that well, but a Marine is a Marine, and soldiers mourn their own.

Sol retreats to the orlop shortly after the funeral, perched on a crate with a needle and a bit of twine, frowning down at the hole in one of his mittens. He doesn’t have watch duty for a few bells, and Hedges has taken some of the men on a hunting trip, so he’s got a few hours free. Really, he should ask Tommy to do this, since he’s a lot better at fine needlework than Sol is, but one look at his bright blue eyes and Sol decided he didn’t want to burden him further with his little frivolities. God knows he does enough running around _Terror_ already, what with serving the officers and also willingly taking on more and more work for Sol and his men. Work he really shouldn’t be taking. But he does.

Sol knows who he is and where he stands. He can’t understand why Tommy would want to willingly darn socks and fetch cups of tea and bottles of grog. But then again, he’s not Tommy’s father nor his commanding officer. He can’t order him what to do.

Someone quietly clears their throat above his head, and Sol looks up, then climbs to his feet. He feels awkward—undressed even, acutely aware of the fact that his coat is currently laying atop one of the barrels, and he’s loosened his stays to make it easier to breathe in the chilly air. Even down here in the belly of the ship, it’s colder than it ever was in England. Sol’s seen more of the world than most men, but he’s never felt cold the way this place is cold.

“Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant.”

Little looks straight at him for a moment, before he blinks a few times, sniffs, and reaches up to wipe at one of his eyes. For a sudden, horrible moment Sol thinks the lieutenant is _crying_ , but then Little’s arm is back at his side and his eyes are clear and dry.

“The frost,” Lieutenant Little says, by way of explanation. “I find that it always collects on my eyelashes, and then when I’m back below deck it melts, and—well. Then they’re damp.”

“I understand, sir,” Sol replies. Now all he’s doing is looking at his eyelashes, framing the lieutenant’s eyes in the soft orange light cast by the oil lanterns. They’re thick and long and dark, just like a woman’s.

Sol breathes. 

Little clears his throat again. “Anyway I… I just wanted to say. Privately. That you have my condolences.”

Sol frowns. “Thank you, sir. But he was an Erebite. You should be speaking to Bryant, really. Not to me.”

“I will,” Little replies. “But I…” He swallows. “I know you boys are close. And it must be hard to lose one of your own so early on this expedition.”

 _Your own,_ Sol thinks. _Not one of our own._ Officers always viewed themselves above the rest of the men, and the men viewed themselves higher still than Marines.

Still, he appreciates this uncharacteristic kindness, from a wardroom officer.

“I appreciate it, Lieutenant.”

Edward Little nods at Solomon Tozer, and turns to take his leave. Sol watches him disappear back up the ladder, and wishes that he had been wearing his red coat.

* * *

_“He’s a Royal Marine. Now what the bloody hell do people think that means?”_

The lieutenant doesn’t come to offer his condolences after Heather is attacked. Solomon keeps himself busy. He trims Bill’s nails, and combs his hair. Clutches Bill’s cold fist in Sol’s warm one, and hopes, desperately, that this time when he squeezes, Bill will squeeze back.

He never does. His hands and arms and body remain limp and cold and lifeless, slipping out of Solomon’s hands as the fire rages around them and Sol cries out in anguish, “you’re crushing him! No, God, _please_ —”

* * *

“Everyone stand still!”

The men stop moving, but he’s surrounded. Tozer clicks the safety off the rifle.

They both know the truth—Little won’t be able to physically stop them all. He has his words, but that’s all they are. Words.

Where once he saw an officer, now he sees Edward for what he truly is. A man in a greatcoat that conceals his true stature. Lieutenant Little has the rifle over his shoulder, but Tozer has his finger on the trigger.

* * *

They’ve taken Hickey away—he’s in one of the other tents, Sol knows, but he doesn’t know which one. He knows Mr. Jopson—Lieutenant Jopson, now, is the one looking after him, which quashes any notion of physically overpowering their jailors and escaping. Sol’s a man who’s spent his entire life around men with guns. Solomon knows men, and he knows guns, and more importantly, he knows the look of a man who also knows his way around both. 

Jopson is both.

Hickey is good with his tongue. He’s scrappy. but Sol can feel the fire behind Thomas Jopson’s steel-and-ice gaze.

He’d better hope Hickey can talk his way out of this one, then.

Sol runs his tongue along the grimy surface of his front teeth, and looks up at Lieutenant Le Vesconte.

Henry, he thinks. This one’s a Henry. 

“Lieutenant—” he starts. Le Vesconte stares at him implacably. His beard has been growing in recently, changing the shape of his face. All their beards have been growing in, but on the officers it’s more noticable, somehow. A visual reminder that behind all those clean lines and brightly polished buttons they’re just men. 

Le Vesconte is a man like him.

Hickey is good with his tongue, Sol thinks. Cornelius opens his mouth, and men sing.

“Lieutenant,” Sol tries again. When the lieutenant says nothing in response, he continues, emboldened. “So how d’you feel about all this, then?”

“I would stop talking,” Lieutenant Le Vesconte replies, slowly. “If I were you.”

Sol shrugs. “Just trying to make small talk, sir.”

“You weren’t,” Le Vesconte replies. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Sol shuts up. He sits with his legs drawn up to his chest, fiddling with the dirty strips of cloth bound around his palm. Bloody thing’s taking forever to heal. He slowly picks at the knot where Doctor Macdonald first tied the bandage, feeling the fabric loosen between his fingertips.

As he slowly unwinds the cloth to reveal the blistered, still red-raw burn on his palm, he notices Le Vesconte narrow his eyes at him. Let him, Sol thinks. He’s not doing anything untoward.

The wound isn’t healing. With a grunt of irritation, Sol begins winding the dirty cloth back around the skin. He pulls too tight at the last circuit, and the sudden stab of pain makes him think of Bill. Bill, and his permanently closed eyes and slack jaw. He hadn’t seem to feel any pain at all, despite the hole in his skull. Hadn’t felt anything at all, when he’d slipped from Solomon’s grasp.

Sol presses his palms to his eyes and inhales. There’s a rustle of canvas, and Fitzjames steps into the tent. Lieutenant Le Vesconte rises to his feet, gun still pointed deliberately at Solomon. Sol’s fingers itch for a rifle. 

“Has he been behaving?” Fitzjames asks, with the barest glance in Sol’s direction. Le Vesconte doesn’t smile.

“He has. Sir.” Sir, almost as an afterthought.

There’s a moment of silence. Then Fitzjames laughs, once. Awkwardly.

“Come on, Dundy. You know I don’t care about that.”

Le Vesconte glances back at Solomon for a moment, seeing a soon-to-be dead man, and turns back to Captain Fitzjames.

“Well maybe I do. Sir. I’m afraid there’s nothing interesting to report. Sergeant Tozer has been quiet and obedient. A perfect prisoner.”

Fitzjames takes a deep inhale of breath. Exhales.

“Henry—”

“Not _here_ ,” Le Vesconte hisses between his teeth. Insolent.

Sol shifts forward slightly.

A shadow passes across Fitzjames’ handsome face. “After the execution tomorrow morning, I will expect a full report.” He says. “You will leave no detail out.”

“Of course, captain.”

Fitzjames leaves, and Le Vesconte’s face is thunderous.

 _Huh,_ Sol thinks. _Well. That’s interesting._

* * *

He tries to sleep. He only manages a few hours, in the end, and there are no dreams to speak of.

* * *

_“No man here knows but us.”_

His jailor is there when he awakens, and when Sol opens his eyes and stretches his arms out behind his head, wincing at the crack of his joints, he almost lets his face relax from the scowl it’s been stuck in ever since they first walked in here.

“Good afternoon… sir,” Sol drawls, because it’s looking more and more like he’s going to be dead by the end of the day.

The lieutenant nods at him, and Sol lets his legs uncross, sprawling across the floor of the tent.

“So what’ll it be?” he asks.

“Gallows,” Le Vesconte replies.

Sol inclines his head. “Really? Even here? Figured you lot’d pick something less…”

“Grandiose?” Le Vesconte offers.

Sol nods.

“There are rules, Sergeant Tozer. Even out here.”

“That there are,” Sol agrees. He leans forward, runs the pad of one thumb across his wind-chapped lips. “Don’t suppose you’d allow a man a last smoke?”

They stare at each other for a moment, Sergeant and Lieutenant, before Le Vesconte acquiesces, pulling a finely carved pipe from inside his coat, and a small twisted pouch of tobacco, tied with a frayed black ribbon.

Sol takes the pipe with a low whistle. “Well. Ain’t this a thing of beauty, then.”

“Mango wood,” Le Vesconte replies, filling the pipe. “Acquired it in Bombay a few years ago, when I was with Jas—James. Captain Fitzjames.”

He takes a puff of the pipe, and hands it to Solomon. Sol inhales, and closes his eyes.

It’s good.

After a few minutes of idle smoking, he opens his eyes again to see Le Vesconte watching him. His hand rests gently on the barrel of the rifle.

“You have a history with Captain Fitzjames.”

Le Vesconte narrows his eyes at him, but Sol merely passes him the pipe, as an offering. Le Vesconte hesitates for a moment, then takes it from Sol’s hand. His skin is warm, heat radiating from his body.

“HMS _Clio_ ,” Le Vesconte says, pipe between his lips. “I was his second.”

Sol nods. He thinks of Hedges. Wilkes. Daly. Hammond. Would they curse his name, once he was dead? Swinging there at the end of a rope, at the end of the world?

Le Vesconte passes him the pipe again, and Solomon puts it to his lips. The mouthpiece is warm from the heat of Le Vesconte’s mouth, and Sol takes his time slotting it between his teeth, letting the damp wood rest against his tongue.

The air is still around them. Outside, Sol can hear the wind howling, the slide of rocks underfoot, and distantly, the sound of saws against wood. 

“I never got to Bombay,” Sol finally says, into the silence of the tent. “Never quite made it that far.”

“They were better times,” Le Vesconte answers. “When things weren’t so cold and dead.”

It’s evening when Hodgson comes in and informs the lieutenant that they’re ready. As Le Vesconte binds his wrists behind his back, Sol can feel the bare pads of his fingers brush against his, the way they had when they were just two men sharing a pipe of tobacco.

Le Vesconte pushes him through the tent flap.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, low enough so that only Sol can hear him, as they round the corner to see Hickey, arms bound and smirking like he was off to the races, “I don’t blame you.”

 _A man_ , Sol thinks, as he steps up to the gallows, Hickey beside him and Le Vesconte behind him. _All officers are men._

* * *

“Tozer!”

Solomon stops running. 

It’s Little—because of course it is. First Lieutenant Edward Little. Crozier’s man.

He turns, smile on his face.

He’s lost his coat, and his stays, and all his trappings. And yet Sol has never before felt so powerful, staring down at Edward Little through the thick fog, hearing the screams of dead men all around him.

“Come with us, lieutenant.”

Solomon throws the rifles to the ground. He doesn’t need them here, not now, with Tommy creeping up behind, gun in hand. Edward’s voice is steady, but Sol can see that he’s shaking.

 _All men have names, Solomon,_ Hickey had told him once. _And there’s a lot of power in them._

 _I wanted you, once,_ Sol thinks. 

“Edward. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

_It consumed his body it consumed his soul it consumed—_

* * *

The first time Hickey has him is the night after he kills Gibson. They ate his flesh. Consumed him.

They find Fitzjames’ body not long after, Hickey triumphantly slicing open the sailcloth to reveal fine, supple leather. He rips them off the captain’s corpse, discarding his own worn boots and replacing them with those that belonged to another man.

When they eat the body, Sol thinks briefly about Lieutenant Henry Le Vesconte and Captain James Fitzjames.

That night, Hickey comes to his tent again.

 _A man is a man is a man,_ Sol thinks, and gets down onto his knees.

* * *

Hickey clasps Solomon’s face between his pale, cold hands, and Solomon stares up at him. His eyes are bright and blue and clear, the only points of light in the darkness of his tent. 

“Do you believe a man has a soul?” Solomon had asked. It only dawns on him later that Cornelius never actually replied.

* * *

_“First in line, and the first cut down.”_

Something slams into the back of his head, and everything goes dark. 

Solomon wakes up in chains.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I am Fascinated by a) the terrible messy fitzconte breakup that happened entirely off-screen in the show and b) dundy being described as hickey but playing within the established navy hierarchy
> 
> I’m also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/halfcharacter/)!


End file.
